I Did it All for Love
by Shadow131
Summary: Christine has died giving birth to a daughter for Raoul. Stricken with grief, he obeys her last wishes to the letter. But he cannot bear to tell his daughter, Angelique, the entire truth of her mother's life.
1. Prologue

**I Did it All for Love**

**Prologue**

**A.N.: This is a very, very angsty fic. As a warning, it made me cry like a baby while I was writing, and I've never done that to myself before, so this might be quite a tear jerker.**

"Monsieur le Viscomte, if you would be so kind," the nurse had said, roughly seizing the terrified man's arm, "get out of the way !" With that, Raoul de Chagny was roughly shoved out of the room where his wife was. Stunned, he stood in that hall way for several moments, merely staring at the door. The day he and Christine had waited nine months for was here.

Only it wasn't going like it should.

Frightened, alone, Raoul paced that hallway until he thought he'd worn holes in his shoes. He forced himself to sit in a chair, but his foot tapped anxiously to some silent, frightful tune.

It was hours before a doctor finally burst from the bedroom, looking for le Viscomte. Raoul sat up, his face grey. "Is she alright?" The doctor said nothing, thinking of what to say. "May I see her?"

Finally, he sighed. "Monsieur, your wife is very ill….She might not-" Raoul did not wait for him to finish the sentence. He burst from the chair, shoving the doctor out of his way as he tried to stop him, snarling "Let me see her!"

When Raoul entered the room, the mere shock of the solemn air made him stop for a moment. Christine, his beloved, his angel, he life, was lying in the bed he always shared with her. She looked so small, so fragile in it, as though she were made of crystal. His breath came in shorter gasps, and he felt his heart clamoring in his chest. She looked as grey and tired as when he'd met her at the Masked Ball, only now she was smiling, holding a small bundle in her arms. "Christine?" he whimpered, daring not to move.

Slowly, she tore her loving gaze from the child to her husband. "Hello, Raoul," she responded softly. She lacked the strength to speak any louder.

With a pained cry, Raoul crossed the small gap between them, falling to his knees by the side of the bed, wildly clutching her hand. He pressed it to his lips, placing it against his cheek. Gently, she soothingly ran a hand down his face, smiling. "Oh Christine, Christine!" he moaned. "What have I done to you?"

"Hush….you'll upset the baby….."

The baby. Raoul gazed down at the infant laying quite calmly in the mother's arms…..His child….He gazed back up at his wife. "How is the baby?"

"_She_," Christine stressed, "is doing fine."

"It is you who is not unwell."

Christine's smile became sad. "Yes, that's true."

"Don't say that!" Raoul cried out; he did not want to hear the truth. He leaned over the edge of the bed, kissing his wife's forehead before placing his own against hers. "You will get better! I promised to protect you, and it was by me that you now suffer. Oh, Christine!"

Her lovely, sapphire eyes gazed into his tear filled brown ones. "No, no, don't blame yourself."

"Oh, Christine, I love you so much. I would die without you."

Her white, shaky hand closed over his own, and he quickly grabbed it. "I would rather die giving birth to your child, then live a thousand years. I love you, Raoul."

"Then don't go!" he begged, as though she had control over her own destiny.

She laughed weakly. "I promise I'll do my best to stay. Now, what should we name our daughter?"

Raoul now looked back at the perfect, innocent child in his wife's arms. The child's eye lashes fluttered open, revealing large, brown eyes. It blinked, seeming to wonder "Who on earth are all of you?" Raoul ran a thumb across her soft cheek, and the little child gurgled and cooed.

Christine held the child closer to her breast, leaning over to give it a soft kiss. "My little angel," she whispered. Christine looked tired, and she began to sink back into the pillows, Raoul wildly clinging to her hand. "Our little angel. Isn't she perfect, Raoul?"

"She is as perfect as her mother, who is a flawless star."

Christine smiled. "Angelique. That is who she is."

Raoul gave his daughter a soft kiss. "Angelique," he repeated, before returning his adoring gaze to his wife.

She was now very grey, very tired. Her breath rattled in her chest, and her grip on her husband's hand became slack. "Oh….Raoul, I'm just so tired…."

"Christine!" he cried, holding her in his arms, supporting her head. He showered kisses on her exhausted face, sobbing. "Don't go, don't go! Don't leave me alone! Christine, Christine!"

"But my darling, you are not alone. You have Angelique."

"Please, Christine, please! Don't go, don't go! Don't leave me! I can't take care of her by myself! I can't live without you! I love you, I love you, don't go!" Unabashed tears fell from his handsome eyes, and even Christine was beginning to cry.

"Raoul, I don't think I have much time, so please, listen carefully: Take Angelique and go back to France. You do not belong in Sweden."

"I belong with you!" he cried. "Wherever you are is where my home is. Don't send me away from you, Christine! Let me stay."

"You must go, my darling, and so must I."

Raoul's tears started with fresh vigor: "Don't send me away! Don't leave me, don't go!"

"I don't want to go," she sobbed as well. "But my father misses me…..and so does Erik."

"No!" Raoul cried tightening his grip on her. "I took you away from him, I made sure he could never haunt you again! Don't think of him, Christine, don't think of him!"

"He's finally become an Angel of Music, and I must become an angel as well."

"Don't make me loose you to him again, please, Christine!"

"Raoul," she promised, "you can never loose me. I have but one husband of my heart and of my soul, and that is you. I have but one mate, and that is you! Death won't keep me from you. Love is too strong for that."

Her soul began to fade from her body, which was growing lax, the babe falling closer to her breast as she fell into the embrace of death, though it was her husband who still held her body. "Don't go, Christine, don't leave me! Please, please, come back! Christine, Christine!"

The sobbing plea rang through the room, and down the hall. The heart broken sobs seemed to echo as le Viscomte sobbed over the only woman he had ever loved. Nothing could dry his tears as they fell like rain, his voice cracking as he cried "Christine, Christine! Come back, don't go! Christine, don't leave me!"

The attendants that had waited, respectfully, outside the door, rushed in and to their work. They felt her pulse, took the living child from her dead arms, and gently ushered the Viscomte out. He was about to be lead out the door, tender and timid as a lamb, still sobbing, when suddenly, he dug his heels into the carpet, and savagely snarled "No! Where is my daughter, bring me my daughter!" The nurses scurried and took the child from the mid-wife's arms, reluctantly pressing it into the man's. Mad with grief, he held the bundle, who had begun to cry, frightened at the sudden noise, missing the warmth of her mother's body.

Now the Viscomte was lead out the door, still sobbing. He showered kisses on the child's face. "Hush, hush, your mother can't be with you right now. I'm here, I'll protect you. I'll protect you as I couldn't protect her. Oh, Christine, I failed you. I'm so sorry, I love you!" His prayers to the angel of his heart that waited for him at heaven's pearly gate ceased as he tried to calm the child. "I love you, my little Angelique. I promise, no matter what happens, I will always love you. I'll protect you from monsters under the bed, and…..and phantoms that lurk. Phantoms that haunted your mother, phantoms that haunted me. I'll never let them touch you."

Someone forced the sobbing man into a chair as he tightly clutched his child, sobbing over her because he could not sob over the body of his dead wife.

**To Be Continued….**


	2. Chapter One

**I Did it All for Love**

**Chapter One**

**A.N.: The song "Lullaby," comes from the Original Cast Recording of "The Scarlet Pimpernel." The music is owned by Frank Wildhorn, and the lyrics are the property of Nan Knighton. **

Angelique de Chagny knew very well that Papa would not want her climbing in the attic. This didn't stop her from doing it, mind you, and she sometimes had a guilty conscience afterward, but she decided that it didn't hurt anyone, so, therefore, it was alright. Besides, there wasn't any rule against it. Papa just seemed upset whenever Angelique proudly showed him the latest thing she'd fished from the attic. He'd smile and rustle her hair, but the smile was sad, and he often went and locked himself into his bedroom.

But, for boring summer days when school was finally out, the only solution of entertainment seemed to be the attic. Angelique had friends, of course. Lots of friends from school, and a few in the village near where the de Chagnys lived – half way between the town of Nantes and the ocean - but Angelique wasn't always especially keen on playing with them. She was terribly shy, you understand.

"You're just like your mother," Papa would praise whenever she did something that reminded him of her, or was shy when he tried to introduce her to someone. But yet, he always said it sadly, though he smiled proudly at his only child.

Papa tried not to think of Mama too much. It broke his heart.

The grounds were extensive, perfect for a small child to run and play in, but Papa refused to let her unless someone was watching, and that took all the fun away from the game.

"What would I do if you fell from a tree – which, I might add, you are not supposed to climb – and broke your neck?" he'd asked when she pouted. "What would I do then, Angelique?" Sighing, she would not respond, but, instead, crawl onto her father's lap and into his strong arms. She would whisper "I won't get hurt, Papa, I promise," but knew that the argument was over and that she had lost.

Angelique's favorite chest in the attic was a large, faded green one, with brass handles and pretty much no design. She liked to pretend it was Mama's, and she would sit upon it, as Mama might have sat, and pretend to talk to her sometimes. Papa promised that Mama was watching them even now, because she loved them.

And Papa had loved Mama very much.

Today, she was rummaging inside said chest, and _knew_ that Papa was very likely to be furious with her; if they were Mama's things, she would do better to leave them alone. And if they weren't, she still shouldn't have been in the attic.

The only things Papa kept that reminded him of Mama downstairs in the rest of the house were a few photographs and a few paintings, though Angelique suspected there were more things in his room. But she was very rarely allowed into Papa's room.

She gave a small, happy cry as she found a new treasure in the faded green chest: Sheet music! She gently pulled out the worn, slightly old pages and glanced over them. Happily, she closed the lid and scurried to the steps. The ancient wooden steps creaked under her small weight, and once she reached the door, it opened and then closed with a long, mournful creak. She then happily skipped down the hall to the main set of stairs, and from there she went down and into the parlor, where the piano was.

It was the piano Papa had given Mama as a wedding gift. He'd had it brought all the way from Sweden.

Excited as a tiny child – which she still might qualify as, seeing as she was only twelve – Angelique set the sheet music on the stand, settling herself onto the black piano bench. Carefully, she experimentally ran her fingers over the keys, listening to the light sound of the piano as it awoke. She practiced a few of the bars without vocals before finally deciding she could do the song justice.

_Go to sleep _

_Say your prayers_

_Rest your head _

_Upon my shoulder_

_Slumber deep_

_And breath your _

_Cares away_

It was, as the sound of the piano gently rang through the house, and the small child's voice – a born soprano – accompanied it, that le Viscomte Raoul de Chagny walked down the hall that ran to the parlor as well as other rooms.

"Angelique," he called, "did you finish your…."

He stopped short as the sound of the music floated like an angel's chorus to his ears. He stood in the doorway of the parlor, silent, his heart beating wildly as his head sent him a thousand memories that he would rather forget.

_If I die_

_Before I wake_

_May I look _

_Upon the angels_

_Standing by_

_Come to take _

_Me Home_

Christine……

Surely it was Christine who was sitting at that piano bench, fingers flying expertly over the keys, her streaming golden hair reflecting in the sunlight that poured through the window. His little child looked like her in every way, except that she was younger, smaller, and had her father's eyes.

Monsieur le Viscomte remembered being a child of fourteen years, swimming into the sea to fetch an eleven year old's red scarf. He remembered taking violin lessons from Monsieur Daae, and then, once the lesson was done, of sitting with Christine at the piano, much like the one he had given her, and playing song after song after song.

_Don't you cry_

_My darling_

_You are home_

He remembered seeing her again when he was nineteen and she was only sixteen, after he'd joined the navy. He remembered walking alone with her in her garden, whispering sweet nothings in her ear while she blushed and held his hand.

"Christine Daae, I think I am in love with you," he'd told her.

"You can't be, Raoul!" she protested. "Because you are a Viscomte, and I am just a girl who's studying to be an Opera Singer." That was the last time he had seen her, until his brother had taken him to the Paris Opera House, to his private box, three years later. And then, it was only a year after that that she…..

Without knowing it, his own voice now rang out with the child's, harmonizing the song he and Christine had sang together at Angelique's age.

_You and I_

_Together_

_Make our home_

Startled, Angelique turned quickly to see her father, still standing in the doorway, silent, stunned.

"Good afternoon, Papa," she said, nervously awaiting the reprimand that was sure to follow.

"Where did you get that?" he asked her, taking a step into the room.

Angelique paused guiltily. "I found it."

Raoul rolled his eyes. "Yes, but _where_ did you find it?"

"…In the attic."

She waited for the stern sermon, and for the punishment, but they never came. Instead, her father made a sort of a grunt noise and nodded. He turned to leave, but then decided against it, facing his daughter once more. "Did you light a candle for your mother at Mass yesterday?"

Every Sunday, Angelique religiously lit a candle for her mother, while her father lit four of his own: One for the mother that had died birthing him, one for the father that had died when Raoul was a boy, one for the brother who had so lovingly raised him, and one for the wife that he would worship till he died. And every Sunday, Raoul would ask his daughter "Did you light a candle for your mother?" And every Sunday, the answer was the same: "Yes, Papa."

"You asked me that yesterday," responded Angelique, still worried.

"Well, did you?"

"The answer is the same as yesterday." She was being cheeky, a rare occurrence, but becoming steadily more frequent for one simple reason: Angelique was growing up, she was becoming a teenager.

"Angelique…" Monsieur de Chagny said slowly, with warning. Angelique was a smart child, she knew when to back down.

"Yes, Papa, I did."

He walked into the room, sitting next to his daughter at the piano bench. He looked from her, to the keys, to the music, and back to her again. "Good," he finally replied, stroking her soft, golden head. Finally, the very gentle reprimand came. "I don't want you going up in the attic again, alright?"

"Yes, Papa."

He took the music from the stand, gently running his thumb over the text; fading, just like the memories. He stood and took from his pocket a key. He left the room briefly, telling his daughter to remain there, he would be right back. He walked to his own room and entered. Carefully, he inserted the small brass key into the lock of one of his dresser drawers. He slowly opened it and placed the sheet music inside, along with countless other little treasures; things that reminded him of Christine. Raoul wanted them always near him, but he wanted them locked away, so that they might not hurt as much. He then returned to the parlor, sitting back down at the piano bench where Angelique had remained.

He sighed, gently petting her soft head. "You are so much like your mother."

"Thank you, Papa."

They remained silent for a while, the small girl snuggling into her father's loving arms whilst his heart broke remembering his wife.

Finally, she asked "Papa, would Mama have been proud of me?"

He paused, his voice chocked. He fought back tears and replied "Oh yes, she would have been. She _is_ very proud of you." The silence continued until he finally delicately shoved his daughter off the piano bench. "Now, go and play outside." She gave her father a small kiss and ran out the door. Realizing that he might have implied that she could run free, he quickly shouted after her "And stay in the garden!"

Needless to say, Angelique's joy was dampened.

**To Be Continued…**


	3. Chapter Two

**I Did it All for Love**

**Chapter Three**

**A.N.: It has been pointed out to me by a very nice reviewer that Raoul's title has an extra "s." I was always taught to spell "vicomte," "viscomte," so, I apologies, but conscience dictates I keep it as it is. **

Angelique wanted to pretend that she hadn't heard her father's last order, that is, to stay in the garden. However, she knew it would do her no good. Papa would throw a fit if she left the safety of the white picket fence just outside the front of the house that marked the garden. Slumping against a pear tree, she sat, sighed, and proceeded to pout.

She would have stayed like this for quite a while – a meager attempt at getting her father to relent – had she not heard, coming down the road, a gusty voice singing. Almost to the time of the song came the steady sound of a trotting horse. Clip, clop, it came, pounding out the beat joyously. She knew that voice…..

Rushing to the gate, she resisted the urge to throw it open and race down the road to satisfy her hopes. But Papa would be furious with her if she did. Half heartedly, she stayed in the yard, leaning over the railing, trying to see if her hopes proved true.

And, indeed, on a marvelous bay horse, came, down the road, Luc Blachville, singing his heart out. Luc was fifteen to Angelique's twelve, tall, with waves of black hair and very green eyes. He was always smiling, always in a good mood. His father was a very wealthy business man who owned a summer home near Nantes, which was very near to where Les de Chagny lived. Angelique had met him last summer, and the friendship had stuck.

"Hello!" he called as he came down a bend in the road. "Where is the Angel of Summer?"

"I'm here, Luc, I'm here!" Angelique cried, finally flinging open the gate and racing down the road. Her skirt flew behind her as she ran, her little feet pounding the ground furiously. Luc quickly dismounted from the horse, opening his arms to Angelique, laughing as she flung herself into them. "You're here, you're here!" she cried, hugging him tightly as she nearly sent him to the ground, so hard did she run into him. "I hoped that you would come, I prayed that you would come! I prayed to Mama that she would send you back! And now you've come back!"

He let her go, taking the reins of his horse and walking with her toward the gate. "You missed me, then?" he asked her teasingly.

"Terribly! I was so bored once school was over with and summer started."

"But it's only barely begun!"

"Still, it's not nearly as much fun as when you are here."

He laughed, dropping the reins for a moment so that he could scoop her up into a large hug and twirl her around in his arms. He set her down, both still laughing, and continued walking.

"I met Anatole on the way over here. Poor little fellow was on foot, racing as fast as he could. I asked him what his hurry was, and he said that he had a letter for your father that he was to deliver as fast as he possibly could. He said that the faster he delivered it and returned to the post, the more he might be paid."

"Poor Anatole," agreed Angelique, clucking her tongue.

"So, what do you think your clever Luc did?"

She took his hand, grinning. "What did you do?"

"I told him, since I was on my way here, that I would deliver the letter for him, as an excuse to your father!" And, Luc produced from his pocket a letter, sealed and addressed to Angelique's father. She tried to snatch it out of his hand, curious, but he quickly pulled it back.

"I can't let you have it!" he exclaimed. "It's marked for Monsieur le Viscomte, and you are not Monsieur le Viscomte."

"But Luc," she pouted prettily, the light reflecting off her golden hair, "it's woman's curiosity." She did not know that she quoted her mother. She did many things her mother did, but never realized it.

He shook his head, putting the letter back into his pocket. They rounded the bend in the road, now in front of the house, where Angelique's father had just dashed out to.

Papa was furious.

"I thought I told you to stay in the yard!" he seethed. Angelique cowered under her father's anger. He was very rarely upset with her, mostly only when she'd worried him, but when he was mad it was venomous.

Her grip on Luc's hand tightened, as though he could protect her, though she required no protecting. "I'm sorry, Papa," she apologized, "but I heard Luc coming down the road, and-"

It was only now that Raoul de Chagny noticed the boy and his horse. His brown eyes snapped in the youth's direction, glaring coldly. "Luc?" he asked.

"Yes, Papa," continued Angelique. "You remember Luc Blachville?"

"Of course, he's the one that you ran around with all summer."

Luc bowed respectfully. "Bonjour, Monsieur de Chagny."

Papa detested Luc; he worried him far too much. He and Angelique were constantly going places without a chaperone, generally things that Angelique could easily get hurt doing! Climbing rocks, swimming in the sea, riding horses across the beach, climbing trees, racing here and there and all across the de Chagny property. It worried Raoul out of his head! The servants were quite certain he would go grey due to this head strong, adventurous, but respectful youth.

"What are you doing here?" he asked the boy.

"Papa!" protested his daughter. "That's rude!"

Both parties ignored the lovely little child, and the younger responded "I brought a letter for you sir." He took it from his pocket, and carefully walked through the white gate, nervously handing it to the gentleman. Monsieur le Viscomte snatched it out of his hand, glancing from Angelique to Luc, and back to the letter.

"I will be right back," he told his daughter. "I want you to stay in the yard, Angelique. If you're not here when I return, well, there will be no telling the consequences."

"Yes, Papa, of course."

With that, Raoul turned and entered the house, tightly clutching the letter. Which left Angelique to entertain her guest. Luc tied his horse to one of the posts of the fence before sitting with Mademoiselle de Chagny on the stone garden bench.

"You see what I mean?" she asked him, sighing. "I cannot take a step without worrying father."

"Don't worry about it, Angelique! You and I shall do exactly what we did last summer. It will be fun!"

"That won't be any comfort to Papa. You worried him last summer, you'll worry him this summer."

He laughed and planted a kiss on her rosy cheek, causing her to blush. "Don't be silly!" he insisted. "Come on, as soon as he gets back, we'll ride my horse straight to the beach!"

"That's nearly twelve miles!" she protested.

"So what?"

"Papa wouldn't like it, but….what am I saying? Yes, I'll go!"

They laughed and shared stories of the last year with each other until Monsieur le Viscomte returned, about a quarter of an hour later.

"Angelique," he called, opening the door and walking into the garden, still holding the letter. "Your aunt has invited us to Paris. Come and pack your things."

Angelique looked crushed. "Now? She's invited us now?"

Her mood puzzled Raoul. "Angelique, I thought you liked Paris?"

"Yes, but….But Luc's only just arrived!"

All the more reason Raoul was accepting the invitation. He politely declined a little under half the invitations his sister gave him. Paris held too many memories. Most of the Brittany coast held too many memories for Raoul, but he was a naval officer; the sea was a part of his blood.

"Angelique…" It was an order, firm, soft, steady, and Angelique did not dare disobey.

"Yes, Papa, I'll pack my things at once. But….can't I spend just a little time with Luc?"

"No doubt Monsieur Blachville has other important matters to attend to, don't you, Luc?"

Angelique gave her friend a quick look, as if to say "Say no!" But he could not. He knew when he was being kicked out, and he knew when to back down.

"Yes, monsieur, thank you for your time."

Raoul nodded and addressed his daughter. "We're leaving tomorrow morning," he told her, and turned, walking back into the house. Luc sighed, releasing Angelique's hand. He rose from the bench, walking to his horse.

"Luc!" Angelique protested, chasing after him, grabbing his hand. "Please, Luc, don't let Papa intimidate you! You just frighten him a little is all! Please stay!"

"Angelique," laughed the boy, "your father dislikes me for a very good reason. I am rich, so he cannot object to my family standings. I am polite, so he cannot object to my manners. I love you, which is what he objects to."

Angelique was stunned, still holding his hand. "You what?" she asked, breathless. He leaned over and gave her a very quick kiss; Angelique's first kiss.

"Just come back from Paris soon, alright?"

Angelique blinked, nodded. "Alright……"

He laughed, untied his horse, and mounted, briskly trotting back to the town.

**To Be Continued….**


	4. Chapter Three

**I Did it All for Love**

**Chapter Three**

**A.N.: Oh my God! I'm updating, it's a sign of the apocalypse! Seriously, sorry for the…what, a year? The year of lag….I'll try and remedy that. As for the spelling of "vicomte." I cave, you guys win. No sense in arguing irrefutable evidence. I'm a reasonable person. However, I am too lazy to go back to the other chapters and change it…..**

"Good morning, Christine."

Raoul was carefully watering a small rose bush in the glowing light of dawn, the light pink blossoms giving off a sweet scent. He was not, of course, referring to the rose bush as his dead wife. That was merely a token of a memory – all those roses he'd given her after they'd married….. He was speaking to everyone and no one. To the woman he was sure was watching him. Always, _always_ he got up at dawn, in rain or shine, to water the roses, to talk to the air. His wife was in Heaven, and Heaven was everywhere if only he could look hard enough.

Thinking she could hear him was his only solace.

"I won't be watering your rose bush for a little while. Claudette will be doing that, I am going to Paris." He turned his face to the horizon, closing his eyes against the glowing, melted coin of the sun. "Oh, I know, I hate Paris. But Angelique does like going, and it's been so long since she's seen her cousins." A breath of wind pushed at a golden lock of his hair, and he smiled, taking in a deep lungful. "Okay, you win. Yes, that Luc does worry me."

Setting his watering can down, he meandered past a small copse of his pear trees where he was given an uninhibited view of the distant ocean. "No, he is nothing like me. I was never so rambunctious, I-" He stopped, laughed. "I suppose we did climb everywhere and anywhere as children, didn't we? But….but look what I did to you….." His head sank into his ever waiting hands, shaking slightly. "I helped to kill you….." The breeze blew against his hot cheeks and he calmed himself somewhat. "No, I know you don't like it when I say that, but I can never stop the guilt." He changed the subject, watching the water again. "Angelique's thirteenth birthday is in a week, that's probably why soeur invited us. She pesters me about my daughter constantly. I don't think my raising of Angelique is so bad….Well, I suppose I do protect her a bit overly much, but….But how can she blame me? I just want her to be safe, to protect her….The way I could never protect you…."

He swallowed hard, trying desperately to get off that subject. He leaned one hand against the bark of the tree, watching the smooth curve of the fruit that hung there. "The things they do together are so dangerous! Fair enough that we did a lot of dangerous things I suppose….Your father never seemed to worry, God bless his soul…." Raoul de Changy slowly sank to the ground, shaking his head. "He never worried….He was a widower with a daughter, and he was alright….

"What am I doing wrong, Christine?"

…

Dominique had been Angelique's nurse as a child, and her position as hard task master as compared to her father's soft indulgence of the girl was as obvious as ever. The large, grey haired woman was inspecting all of Angelique's baggage religiously as the girl sat on the side, the picture of beautiful melancholy. "Did you remember to pack your parasol?" Dominique had run of the house, organizing the disorganized de Chagny life style with infinite grace and patience. The younger maids cowered in terror at what le Vicomte so good naturedly called, along with his twelve year old child, "Domina."

"Of course, Domina," Angelique now sighed, feeling very oppressed by the lady of the house.

"None of your cheekiness with me, Mademoiselle," the fifty plus year old woman reminded sternly. "Domina is alright in play, but you are growing up, and should be a serious child."

"I am never a serious child."

Dominique harrumphed at that, carefully examining the small, sunny yellow parasol. "Dieu, I certainly know that. Running here and there and everywhere. Everywhere with _boys_ for goodness sake. Such a regular tomboy," she disapproved, clucking her tongue. "You are growing up," she repeated, vigilantly probing the other bags, "and should behave as a lady. Your mother, she acted as a lady, God bless her soul." Mentioning Mama was Dominique's card at getting Angelique to behave, but she was not of the mood to rise to the bait. Instead, the girl merely sighed, her chin resting on her hand.

"Yes, Domina."

"Your granddame, your aunt, all ladies of class."

"Of course, Domina."

"Child, you aren't listening to your Domina!" Angelique looked away from the spot of wall she'd been staring blankly at. No, she hadn't really been listening, and Dominique was in earnest. Sighing, the old woman briefly pet the golden haired head. "You are growing up, little child. Playing the boy's games is no longer appropriate. Playing at anything with boys shall not be appropriate until you are well grown up. God knows you worry your father enough with that Monsieur Blachville."

"Luc is a gentleman," Angelique insisted, sitting up. "And I think Papa is very terrible when he treats him the way he does. Poor Luc only-"

"Is the first in a long line of boys that will be knocking the poor Monsieur le Vicomte's door down." Dominique went back to her bustling, still clucking her tongue.

"It's not like that…." Angelique insisted in a quiet whisper, blushing.

"Your poor papa, having to let go his only child. No such comfort in his old age."

"What? Do we old gentlemen mean so little to our daughters to need such silly comforts?" Angelique looked up to see her smiling father standing at the door. Angelique was about to grin, for she adored her father, but stopped herself.

"I have not yet forgiven you," she stubbornly insisted, turning her delicate little nose in the air.

"No?" asked Monsieur de Chagny. "Ma amour, you're breaking my heart!" He then turned from the door, sighing heavily, stalking down the hall. Dominique gave Angelique a very pointed look, who was biting her lip. Finally, she flew from her chair, racing down the hall.

"Papa, Papa, wait! I didn't mean it! Don't be sad, Papa!"

Laughing, Raoul caught his little sprite in his arms, kissing the top of her little head. "Ah, ma belle, you are too good to me."

"I am too little," Angelique insisted more for her own benefit, "to leave my father all alone yet."

"Yes, far too young," he agreed, stroking back her hair. "And I shall not allow you to entertain such thoughts until you are…."

"Until?"

"Forty-nine?"

"Papa!"

"Thirty-seven."

"Goodness, no!"

"Alright," he relented, setting her down. "Twenty. And not a day sooner. However," he added, "I had most certainly not catch that Monsieur Blachville of yours hanging around your windows at night." He puffed his chest out for emphasis, crushing any hope of Angelique's that he might be made to see all of Luc's good qualities. "Or you shall soon be one less suitor. I'd wish it you were a hundred less suitors, but there's a father's nightmare. Come along, cherie, the coach is waiting to take us to the train station."

…

Angelique soon found that she could not stay angry at her father for his unreasonable behavior. He actually did spoil her in many ways, and Angelique really did love Paris. She loved her aunt, she got along well enough with her cousins. She was sometimes told a few stories of her father's youth, of his childhood on the Brittany coast. And enough of the stories included Mama as to satisfy a few of her questions. Papa, however, did not like these stories, and they never told them if he was in the room. If they were caught in the middle, Angelique was sent out, and what she assumed was a harsh reprimand followed.

"You shelter her, Raoul! A growing girl needs access to society, not to be kept away in your sea brine little town."

"Heaven forbid," Raoul denied fiercely, "that I ever inflict society upon her. I find it causes for more problems than it could ever solve." Society had laughed at the love sick young Raoul de Changy, and society, she gathered, had created a rift between Papa and her uncle, Philippe. She'd never met this uncle, but Papa seemed to have many fond memories of him.

"Papa has many fond memories of many things," she reminded herself. "But he never tells me any of them."

She never could understand why. "Someday," he'd promise. "When you are old enough, I'll answer all of your questions. But not yet." And she thought she'd heard him whisper, "it's too horrible for me to begin to tell such a young child. Children shouldn't be inflicted with stories of angels who are really devils."

Angelique wondered how an angel could be a devil, but Papa never told her. Papa never really told her anything, especially if it had anything to do with Mama.

It hurt him far too much. He'd loved her more than life itself.

"Someday…." He'd promised. She was going to hold him to that, too.

**To Be Continued….**


End file.
